by Kathy Reichs
“We need to lock down the bunker.”
“I know. Think everything will fit in the back room?”
I nodded. “If we seal both windows, plug the crawl, and nail the interior door shut, things should be okay. The real pain will be getting the solar array inside.”
“I hope you’re right. We don’t have the cash to replace everything if the equipment gets soaked.”
“The bunker’s way up the hill,” I said hopefully. “No surge can reach that high.”
“Careful what you say. We’ve tempted fate enough this week.”
At the dock we looked for Sewee, but the runabout wasn’t in her berth. We turned and started back up the hill.
“Have you seen Ben?” I asked.
“Not since last night. I think he’s still mad we went to Claybourne Manor after the ball.”
I shook my head in exasperation. “Did he think we could just go home, without explaining things? Jason and Chance were in that basement. They had a right to know.”
Shelton raised both palms. “No argument here.”
“If you see Ben first, tell him the bunker needs attention. We have to sneak out there sometime today and lock it down.”
“Sounds like a fun couple of days.” Shelton glanced around, then lowered his voice. “You got anything on the Gamemaster? I racked my brain, but can’t think of a single angle to pursue.”
“Working on it.” I wasn’t ready to admit the same. Not yet.
“You’ll think of something. You always do.” Shelton yawned. “I’m gonna take a nap before my Pops gets back and turns this block into Extreme Home Makeover: Hurricane Edition.”
“Adios.”
Coop blitzed me at the front door, upset that I’d gone strolling without him.
“Ya snooze ya lose, dog face.”
CHAPTER 50
ICURSED AND DROPPED my hammer.
“Owie owie owie!” Waving the thumb didn’t help, so I stuck it in my mouth.
“Construction is not your forte,” Hi said from the base of the ladder.
I shot him a look. “My nails are straighter than yours.”
“True. But I haven’t bashed my hand. You’re like a cartoon character.”
We were securing a plywood sheet over the Stolowitskis’ bay window. Neighbors worked all around us, everyone pitching in to fortify the ten lonely townhouses perched on the neck of Morris Island.
The mood was cooperative, but with an undercurrent of tension. Katelyn was a monster. Morris was exposed and sitting smack in her path. No one really knew if our homes—built on the remnants of a Civil War outpost—could withstand a Category Four beat down.
Like it or not, we’d soon find out.
“You okay, Tor?” Shelton had a sandbag on one shoulder, hauled up from the beach. “We don’t have time for an ER run.”
“We could amputate,” Hi suggested. “Shelton, get the whiskey.”
“Comedians, the both of you.” I descended the rungs and hopped onto the ground.
I glanced at my unit. Coop’s nose pressed against our bay window. He yapped, scratching at the glass with his paws.
Sorry, boy. You’ve gotta hang inside today.
“That’s the last one,” Hi said. “Does Kit still need us to stow the grill?”
“Your dad took care of it,” Shelton replied. “I think we’re almost done.”
“Thank God.” Hi plopped down on his front steps. “My body’s not designed for manual labor.”
I resisted the opening. But he was right. It had been a long afternoon.
We’d had a neighborhood meeting to coordinate weatherproofing efforts, and to make sure everyone had transportation off the island. Then the boys and I had snuck out to the bunker. It took three sweaty hours, but our clubhouse was sealed tight. We hoped.
Back at the compound, dozens of tasks needed doing. Boarding windows. Securing garage doors. Moving deck furniture inside. Ben and his dad were running boats to the leeward side of Isle of Palms. Only their two vessels, Hugo and Sewee, were still docked at our pier.
Having chosen her target, Hurricane Katelyn was picking up speed. Each new report confirmed a direct hit on Charleston.
Our parents worked quickly, trying to hide their anxiety. Departure was first thing the following morning. Kit had been forced to ride out a hurricane before, and had no wish to repeat the experience.
My conscience ate at me all day long. Every hour we’d wasted hammering plywood should’ve been spent hunting the Gamemaster. But the tasks had to be done. It had been impossible to get away.
Threats or no threats, I was starting to feel very guilty about not calling the police. If the Gamemaster escaped, was it our fault?
I was icing my hand when two figures rounded the corner of our building. The surprise made me forget my throbbing thumb.
“What are they doing here?” Hi hissed.
“Not good.” Shelton reached for his earlobe. “Whatever they want, I’m not going to like it.”
Spotting me, Jason hurried over. Chance followed at a leisurely pace.
I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure,” Jason replied. “But we thought you should know right away.”
“Know what?” My eyes flicked to Chance, but his face revealed nothing.
“I slept at Chance’s place last night. My phone died, and I didn’t recharge it until I got home this morning. That’s when I noticed a message from Greg Kirkham, the guy I called last week about the swab you wanted analyzed.”
“Okay.” But I didn’t see why Kirkham mattered. Eric Marchant had already contacted me and determined the accelerant was diesel fuel.
“Kirkham works in the crime lab with Marchant.” Jason’s forehead crinkled. “Get this—he’d called to apologize for not getting back to me about the swab. He said Marchant hadn’t been to work for a week.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I spoke to Marchant on Monday. Met him, actually.”
Hi squinted at me. “When did Marchant first contact you?”
“Last Friday, the day of Jason’s party. He called and told me the swab from the Castle Pinckney cache was coated with diesel fuel. Then we went to the firing range the next morning and gave him the snare gun and bullet fragments.”
I turned back to Jason. “I called Marchant’s office on Monday, but he didn’t answer so I left a message. But he called right back, and I met him at the coffee shop.”
Jason looked uneasy. “Kirkham said Marchant hadn’t been at the lab all this week. Said he isn’t returning calls or emails. Yesterday someone went by his apartment where he lives alone. He wasn’t home and his mailbox was overflowing.”
At that moment, Ben came striding up the hill from the dock. Frowning at Jason and Chance, he tugged Shelton’s elbow and drew him aside. I ignored their whispered conference, perplexed by Jason’s report.
“Why would Marchant skip work?” I asked. “I personally saw him on Monday, and he didn’t say anything about taking time off or leaving town.”
Hi began to fidget. “How’d he analyze our swab without using the crime lab?”
Good point. Something wasn’t right.
Glancing at Chance, I saw a frown that mirrored my own.
“I asked Kirkham that,” Jason answered. “He said there’s no record of any analysis. He said normally that wouldn’t raise eyebrows, since the test is inexpensive and the project was off the books. But Kirkham claimed that Marchant always logs his machine time.”
“So he took a shortcut,” Shelton said.
Jason shook his head. “I guessed that, too, but Kirkham doesn’t think so. He said Marchant is very particular and only uses certain equipment. Around the lab they call him the OCD Chuck Norris.”
“Chuck Norris?” I didn’t get it.
“Because of the red hair and beard,” Jason explained. “Kirkham said Marchant’s a nice guy, but kind of a finicky little shrimp. Definitely not the type to miss a week’s work wit
hout calling in.”
The world shrank around me.
My blood pressure spiked.
I pictured City Light Coffee. The man sipping an oversized cappuccino across the table from me.
“Red hair?” I clutched Jason’s arm. “Beard?”
“Those were his words.” Jason glanced at the fingers tight around his wrist.
“The man we met was tall, clean-shaven, and had light brown hair.” Hi forcefully ticked off fingers. “No beard, not a ginger, and definitely not a shrimp.”
Chance’s eyebrows rose.
Jason glanced from face to face. “What are you saying?”
I tried to organize my thoughts.
Fact: The man I’d had coffee with wasn’t Eric Marchant.
Question: Then who was he?
The answer stared me in the face.
Oh my God.
My steady voice surprised me. “It seems we’ve met the Gamemaster after all.”
Hi sucked in his breath. Shelton wore a puzzled look. Ben turned abruptly, walked several steps toward the green, and rubbed the back of his neck.
“He was impersonating Marchant.” Hi’s head wagged slowly from side to side. “Holy crap balls.”
Jason’s eyes widened. Shelton nearly choked. Ben’s shoulders tensed, but with his back to me I couldn’t see his face.
“Why would this lunatic pretend to be a lab geek?” Chance asked.
“To get near us.” The insight terrified and disgusted me. “To study his playthings up close and personal.”
“But why Marchant?” Chance glanced at Jason, who shrugged helplessly. “How would the Gamemaster know to assume that identity?”
“He’s been watching us from the beginning.” I was suddenly sure. “Tracking our movements. Our communications. He’s freaking taunting us!”
“Jesus.” Shelton’s hand flew to his mouth. “Red hair! Tory, that means—”
“Yes.” I backhanded an angry tear from my cheek.
My mind cycled through another series of images. A murky crypt. A stone sarcophagus. Deathly pale features below a shock of ruddy hair.
This time, I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice. “We know who was inside that coffin.”
I mouthed a silent prayer for the soul of Eric Marchant.
CHAPTER 51
WE HAD NO time to ponder the implications.
Kit appeared with a new set of storm-proofing tasks. Nodding to our visitors, he voiced surprise they were so far from home with Katelyn bearing down. Hi theatrically thanked Chance and Jason for bringing over his tuxedo jacket. The two left, promising to meet with us again after the storm.
I followed Kit’s instructions like a zombie. Pack the car. Clean Coop’s cage. Fill a cooler with bottled water.
My mind reeled. I shivered again and again, shaken by how close I’d been to a cold-blooded murderer.
Two hours slipped by in a haze. Finally, Kit signaled that I was done.
I fired a text to the other Virals. Coop and I met them by the dock.
“We have to examine every interaction with the killer,” Hi said. “See if we missed anything. Find the dots, then connect them.”
“He drove a Ford F-150,” Shelton said. “Black, with oversized tires.”
“Complete with a redneck gun rack,” Hi added. “The Gamemaster had an arsenal in his shooting stand. Rifles. Pistols. A shotgun. An AK-47.” He paled slightly while rattling off the firepower.
“What else?” I glanced at Ben, who was sitting with his legs hanging off the edge of the pier. He looked far away, lost in thought.
Coop’s interest fizzled and he began snuffling down the beach. I let him wander—it’d be a while before he could roam the island again.
The sun was dropping in the west. The air was heavy and still, as if the sky held its breath. Rarely had the Atlantic been so flat and glassy. The deceptive calm seemed like a tease by Mother Nature: Come out to sea. Everything’s fine. Pay no attention to the maelstrom behind the curtain.
“We’re wasting our time.” Ben began coiling a line tied to the first berth. “The Gamemaster always covers his tracks.”
“It’s not a waste,” I shot back. “We might have missed something.”
“You think?” Ben snorted. “You had a tea party with that wacko.”
My cheeks burned, but I held my tongue. Why is he being so moody?
Then I remembered. Ben had puked on his shoes that morning at the rifle range. Massively hungover, both he and Shelton had waited by the 4Runner.
Not exactly his One Shining Moment. Ben was probably still embarrassed.
“He’s a skilled marksman.” Hi leaned back against one of the wooden pilings. “I saw his practice targets. All bull’s-eyes. And he knew a ton about ballistics. Whoever we met, he definitely knows his weapons.”
I replayed that first meeting in my mind. Nothing seemed out of order.
The imposter at the range had been friendly. Eager to help. For the zillionth time I wondered how the Gamemaster knew we’d contacted Marchant.
“On the very first call,” Shelton asked me, “who do you think it was? Marchant or the Gamemaster?”
“The real Marchant.” I’d considered this point, and felt sure. “When we met at the range, I remember being surprised at his appearance. He wasn’t at all what I’d pictured. But I didn’t give it a second thought. That happens all the time.”
A chill passed through me as another domino fell.
“My email.”
“What about it?” Hi asked.
“I’d almost forgotten. During the first call Marchant and I originally agreed to meet at his lab. I emailed his work account so he could send directions. A few minutes later I got a reply—Marchant wanted to switch locations to the shooting range.”
“So you spoke to Marchant and then emailed his work account.” Hi was thinking out loud. “But the Gamemaster wrote you back.”
“He was intercepting your communications.” Shelton tugged his earlobe. “Damn. That phone call may have signed Marchant’s death warrant.”
No one spoke for a while.
“At the gun range, you two stayed in the parking lot,” Hi said to Shelton and Ben. “Do you remember anything about the truck? Like maybe the license plate number?”
Shelton frowned. “I wasn’t my best that day. Sorry.”
We waited. Finally, my patience wore thin. “Ben?”
More seconds passed. Then, “There was a G. On the rear window. Purple.”
“What, for Gamemaster?” Shelton pulled a face. “Talk about ego. But that doesn’t help us. Anything else?”
Ben shook his head.
Shelton turned to me. “What about your chat at the coffee shop?”
“I called Marchant’s office and left a message. Less than a minute later my cell rang and March—” I gritted my teeth, “—the Gamemaster asked me to meet him at City Lights Coffee. So I did.”
“So dumb,” Hi muttered. “And it really was a murderer.”
Shelton ignored him. “So he was monitoring Marchant’s voicemail after he … got rid of him. Email too.”
I pictured hazel eyes across a coffee shop table. “We can’t trust anything he told us about the snare gun.”
Shelton’s eyebrows rose. “So the snare gun might not be from LIRI at all.”
“The Gamemaster knows things about us,” I said. “He might’ve been looking for a reaction. More mind games for his sick enjoyment.”
“We can’t say anything about the gun either way.” Hi ran agitated fingers through his hair, which left it standing on end. “This is so frustrating! We have nothing to investigate.”
“Maybe we should let it go.” Ben had abandoned the rope to stare out over the water. “For once. We’re not going to catch him. The police have a better shot.”
“Are you suffering short-term memory loss?” Shelton tapped a temple. “Did you forget the surveillance photographs?”
Hi nodded in vigorous agreement. “That didn
’t feel like a bluff.”
Ben shrugged, eyes glued to the horizon.
“We can’t talk. Not yet.” I spun, whistled for Coop, and headed back up to the townhouses. “I’ll think of something.”
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. When I finally dozed off, my dreams were dark and worrisome.
I was alone in the woods at night. Somewhere unfamiliar.
No sounds. Not the slightest chirp of a cricket.
Crack! Crack!
Shots in the darkness. I turned. Marchant—the man I’d thought to be Marchant—was crouched in the shadows, grinning through a mask of peeling clown paint.
I stared down the barrel of his AK-47.
Marchant pulled the trigger. Bullets peppered the dirt at my feet.
I screamed. Ran.
Longleaf pines towered above me, blocking the moonlight. Tangled undergrowth tore at my legs. I stumbled blindly, never looking back.
I heard footsteps giving chase. Maniacal laughter. Every few yards there was a burst of gunfire. Bullets shredded the branches and trunks around me.
I reached a parking lot. Recognized my location. The firing range.
The Gamemaster’s F-150 was parked on my left. I saw the gun rack, the oversized tires, and a glowing purple G on the rear window. Ben was right.
No other cars. No Virals. No 4Runner.
A twig snapped behind me.
I whirled. The Gamemaster was less than a yard away. His hazel eyes burned in the darkness, narrow and unblinking.
Dropping the gun, he pulled a twelve-inch carving knife from his belt. Congealed blood coated its razor-sharp edge.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t call out.
The Gamemaster stepped close. Ran the blade down my cheek.
“Game over, Victoria,” he whispered.
I screamed. Woke.
Drenched in sweat, I sat up, tried to regain control of my heartbeat. The nightmare felt so real. So personal. I rubbed the goose bumps from my arms.
The first morning rays were slanting through my window.
Coop was scratching at my door, in tune with my distress.
I had one foot on the floor when the epiphany hit.
I lunged for my phone.
“The G on the Gamemaster’s truck!” I paced, too wired to stand still. “It must be a parking permit for downtown. They assign a separate letter to each residential zone!”
